


i won't go quietly

by chase_the_wind



Category: 6 Underground (2019)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Original Character(s), Past Torture, Past Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:41:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22040503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chase_the_wind/pseuds/chase_the_wind
Summary: When I go into the groundI won't go quietlyI'm bringin' my crownWhen I go into the groundOh, they gotta bury me,Bury me face downAs they threw Six’s body into the water, Four asked apprehensively, “What does this mean?”One did not hesitate.Six’s body hit the water and sank beneath the waves with a heavy degree of finality.“It means we find a Seven.”As they stood aboard the ship and watched as their teammate sank below the surface, One clenched his hands tightly, an old wound on his left thigh burning as the memories came rushing back.“And an Eight.”
Relationships: Four | Billy (6 Underground)/Original Character(s), One (6 Underground) & Original Female Character, Three | Javier/Two | Camille (6 Underground)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 75





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Fic Title: "Bury Me Face Down" by grandson

_As they threw Six’s body into the water, Four asked apprehensively, “What does this mean?”_

_One did not hesitate._

_Six’s body hit the water and sank beneath the waves with a heavy degree of finality._

_“It means we find a Seven.”_

_As they stood aboard the ship and watched as their teammate sank below the surface, One clenched his hands tightly, an old wound on his left thigh burning as the memories came rushing back._

_“And an Eight.”_

.

.

.

_Pain -_

_There were needles in her arms, restraints around her wrists and ankles -_

_“She’s waking up!”_

_Pain -_

_Her throat convulsed, the hard edges of a breathing tube burning and scratching at her esophagus -_

_She could feel their hands_ _**inside**_ _her chest -_

_Pain -_

_“We cannot lose this asset!”_

_“Put her under again!”_

_Pain,_ _**pain -**_

_“She’s going to go into cardiac arrest!”_

_The cold press of medicine in her veins was both familiar and frightening._

_Her vision started to white out near the edges again -_

_The pain was fading -_

_**Everything** was fading - _

_“Congratulations, everyone,” a man with cold eyes and blood staining his arms up to his elbows -_ _**her blood**_ _\- “We have finally succeeded.”_

_The last thing she heard was his laughter._

_“Lucky number Eight.”_

.

.

.

She woke with a start - cold sweat covering her body and all of her instincts on high alert - a gun in her hand and pointed at the door in one fluid motion. 

“Wow, calm down there, sweetheart, you know how horny I get when you point a gun at me.”

She blinked once, before she dropped her arm and flicked the safety of the gun back on with a disgusted groan. 

“I thought that nightmares are supposed to end once you wake up,” she bit out, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and standing with a stretch. 

“Ouch,” he stated cheerfully, “I thought I would have gotten a warmer welcome, especially considering Barcelona.” 

Dark brown eyes glared at him from behind a curtain of messy black curls. 

“We swore never to talk about Barcelona.”

One leaned back against the doorframe, his familiar gaze looking her up and down, cataloging all the ways she had changed and stayed the same since he had last seen her. 

Her curly black hair was longer now, falling just below her shoulders. Familiar dark brown eyes, so dark he could not see the pupil, glaring at him. _That_ was an expression of hers that he was intimately familiar with. She was wearing nothing but an oversized white shirt and black lace panties, showing off her bare legs dotted with scars. There were a few new scars that he could see, one across her left forearm and what looked like a new bullet hole scar in her right upper thigh. 

“Well, with you dressed like that, all I can say is that this is bringing back a lot of those lovely memories, sweetheart.” 

She merely put her hands on her hips, not at all thrown or embarrassed by her state of undress. 

He had seen her in less. 

“How did you find me? Actually, how did you even get in here?”

“Through the window,” he motioned nonchalantly behind him, “Nice job with the spring gun, almost got me in the thigh.” 

“It’s set to hit someone in the abdomen,” she groused. 

“Well, maybe for midgets. Oh, wait, did you use your own height to set it?” 

“What are you _doing_ here?” She demanded, finally reaching the end of her capacity for their familiar banter, off-balance as she always was when she woke from a nightmare. 

One immediately went serious, in his typical mercurial way. 

“Came to try and recruit you.” 

A brief pause. 

“That’s funny. Why are you really here?” 

She grabbed and started to pull on a pair of jeans that had been discarded on the floor. 

“No, I’m serious.”

She straightened immediately, her incredulous expression making One want to smile.

“For your fucking insane mission?”

“Not so insane anymore.” 

She rolled her eyes, throwing her hands in the air even as she strode past him to the kitchen of her small apartment. 

“Oh, really? You cannot really expect me to believe you got a single person to agree to that madness-“

“Aha, joke's on you!” One gleefully followed as she rummaged through the battered cabinets, pulling out a glass and filling it with water.

He waited until she had taken a big gulp before he went, “I actually got five others to join my ‘fucking insane mission.’”

Her slight choke on her mouthful of water was vindicating. 

“Well, got five others to agree, only four of the original are alive now. Just recruited a new member, he will be Seven. Was hoping that you would be our Eight.” 

Her glare got darker, and she slammed the glass she was holding back against the counter.

“Oh, _fuck you_.” 

He grabbed her arm as she stormed by, gently stopping her. His grip was light enough that she could have easily pulled away, but she stopped.

He could feel how stiff she was, almost vibrating with tension. She steadfastly refused to meet his gaze. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his expression soften. 

The last time she had seen his face soften like that, she had been bleeding out all over his expensive jacket in some grimy back alley in Berlin. 

“I know it is hard to believe, but I did not come here and ask you this to be an asshole. We _do_ need an Eight. The rest of them, they are talented in what they do. But they have never dealt with shit **of** this magnitude, and we already lost someone.” 

She could see the guilt lurking behind his eyes. Whatever happened, whomever it was that they had lost - he blamed himself for it.

She sighed, letting her head fall back as she glared up at the ceiling.

“Please, I really do need you on this. I have tried to minimize all the risks I can, but I don’t know how to maneuver this dark underground, not like you do. This is what we have both been fighting for, ever since Berlin. Protecting those who cannot protect themselves, ending threats that others aren’t able to fight against-“

“Preventing others from having to grow up like we did,” she finished the familiar mantra for him, already hating herself because she _knew_ she was going to cave, and he _knew_ it, too. 

Growling low in her throat, she conceded defeat. 

“Fuck, _fine._ I’ll join your fucking insane crusade and save all of your asses. I’ll be your Eight.” 

One gleefully wrapped her up in a hug and swung her around the small kitchen, even as she cursed at him in about five different languages and tried to squirm out of his embrace. 

He finally dropped her and immediately ducked the punch she aimed at his face. He popped back up out of her reach with a bright, almost manic smile on his face. 

“Alright! Come on, pack your shit, Eight, can’t leave the kids home alone for much longer if we want the house to still be standing!” 

.

.

.

_**Two Days Later** _

**_California Desert_ **

“This is our haunted house. It’s a lot like the Batcave, except it’s nothing like the Batcave…Seven, you’re dead. Also, everyone, meet Eight.” 

Eight quickly sized up everyone in the room. 

Seven, the newest recruit besides her, was a tall black man with broad shoulders, close-cropped hair and neatly trimmed facial hair. Everything about him, from the way that he held himself to the way that he stared down One, screamed _military_. She would put her money on special ops, maybe Rangers, most likely Delta Force. 

Three was another man, also tall and broad, with dark hair and features and awild, frenetic energy. He was standing close to a lithe blond woman, Two, the only other person in the room that was even remotely close to Eight's admittedly diminutiveheight.

The other woman, Five, was a tall, pretty Latina. She seemed much more warm and much less guarded than the others in the room. She was the only one whose smile actually seemed to reach her eyes. 

And lastly, Four, a young man, probably closer to her own age, with light blond hair and the most piercing green eyes that she had ever seen. He was not built like One or Seven, but instead had the build of a long-distance runner, all lithe muscles and a compact frame.

One was still giving his little introduction to Seven when she finally focused on them again. 

“You’re gonna be restricted to cities that you’ve never visited before, people you have never met. All, of course, except your fellow ghosts. None of whom you’ll know by name, only number, for safety…and so no one gets too close.” 

Eight could barely restrain a snort of laughter at that. 

One motioned to Seven to follow him, “Walk over here. This is our target hit board. These nine men have been placing too much shit inside the box. So, now they answer to us.” 

One reached out and ripped the cover off of the first photograph. 

“Target number one: this prick. First mission, the dictator of Turgistan, Rovach Alimov."

“Oh, _fuck_ yes,” Eight exclaimed, glee lighting up her face. 

Everyone but One looked at her with incredulity. 

“Knew you would appreciate this, Eight,” One teased, “and just wait until we get to mission number three. I fully expect you to nearly combust with excitement.” 

“Oh great,” Three whispered to Two, “now there is two of them.” 

.

.

.

At the diner that One had dragged them all to for dinner, Eight found herself listening with genuine amusement as the others began to extol the advantages of being “dead.”

She actually did laugh aloud at the expression on Seven’s face as he listened to Four talk about not having to deal with being caught naked by the police anymore. 

One was fiddling with his phone, making all the metal things on the table move at his command, much to Three’s frustration as he tried to grab the salt shaker. 

“-we should bring Seven and Eight behind the curtain, you want to hand me those over there?” 

Eight focused back on what One was discussing, actually curious as to what kind of plan the maniac was going to attempt to execute. 

“Here is a little demonstration for you…this is how to stage a coup in three not-so-easy steps.” 

Eight was actually impressed with how much One had thought through this plan - which was not saying much, considering that the crazy man was planning on getting this done in four months. 

Once One was done with his little visual demonstration with cups and salt shakers, he turned to Seven, clearly waiting to see his reaction. “So, we’re all gonna die?” Seven grinned, clearly wondering how the hell he had let himself get talked into doing all of this. 

“Not me,” Two piped up, sipping her beer daintily. 

"She’s not,” One conceded, and then pointed at Eight, who was still sitting in the window as calm as still water, “And neither is she. But the rest of us? Yeah, we all are gonna die. Painfully.” 

Seven grinned wryly, taking a deep draw from his beer before leaning forward again. 

“So, what else can you tell me about this guy Rovach in Turgistan?” 

It was an innocent question - a foreseeable one, too. 

But Eight could not help the concern that rose in her chest when she saw the haunted shadows fall across One’s face. 

She knew the memories that One would never be able to forget. She knew the reason why Rovach was mission number one.

“His atrocities are well documented,” One deflected easily, “It would actually be easier to list the crimes he has _not_ committed against his own people. Trust me, not many good people will be torn up with grief when he is dead.” 

Eight decided to come to One’s rescue, lifting her own beer bottle in a mock cheers. 

“Here’s to getting rid of bad men.” 

“Hear, hear,” Three picked up his own glass, and soon all of them were converging in to cheers her glass. 

“Ya’ll are eighteen different kinds of crazy,” Seven shook his head, but tapped his beer against theirs with a small smile on his face. 

.

.

.

“Hey, what do you know about One?” 

Seven watched Four flip through several different passports as the TV played in the background. 

“He loves Wally the dog, he’s obsessed with this _Beaver_ show, I think he’s an orphan,” Four started listing off, “We have a little bet on it if you want to put some money in.” 

"It’s an interesting crew you got going on here, bro, how many mission you guys run?"

"Counting Florence? One.” 

“One?” Seven repeated, incredulous. 

"Well, there was actually this mini-mission, so maybe one and quarter? That one was in Sicily…but Florence, absolute shitshow. I mean, if I wasn’t there, probably more than one of us dead, that’s all I’m saying.” 

Seven wished that he could be amused by the kid’s bravado, but he was still caught up in the _magnitude_ of what Four was saying. 

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I don't fuck around,” Four looked a little irritated now. 

"You realize I just buried myself in front of my family and friends, right?” 

“Yeah, One told me about that! Big military funeral, guns popping, flags, that’s pretty cool! My funeral, there were only five people there and two of them left before the end!” Four went from insulted to pensive, even a bit ashamed as he softly admitted, “It is tough watching your mum cry at your grave…"

With the ease of youth, Four immediately perked up again, gesticulating wildly. 

"Anyway, this mission though, I got a really good feeling about it - like no offense to you, but Eight? She may be small, but I don’t know man, there is something about her...she looks like she could do this mission on her own in an hour and still walk down a runway ten minutes later."

“That’s sweet of you to say.” 

Seven had to bite hit tongue _hard_ to keep from laughing out loud as Four nearly fell out of his chair, his hood falling off as he whipped his head around to look in the doorway.

Eight was standing there with a wry smile on her face. She was dressed simply in black leggings and a long sleeved gray shirt, her hair loose around her shoulders.

Four was like a deer in headlights, frozen half-in, half-out of his chair. 

If they were in a cartoon, Four’s eyes would have been filled with stars and hearts. 

At the sound of her voice, Wally the dog perked up and hurried over to Eight, and she knelt down to pet him. 

“Hey there, big guy,” she knelt on the ground and the big, lumbering dog staring up adoringly at her, clearly ecstatic at the attention that was being lavished upon him. 

Having some pity on the poor kid, who was still floundering, Seven decided to throw him a bone and distract Eight further. 

“How come you can’t find this guy?”

Four grabbed the distraction with both hands, even as his cheeks still clearly burned with embarrassment. 

“I don’t know, One can usually find anyone, but he just can’t seem to find him. He said Americans caught him a few years back.” 

“Americans?” 

“That’s not surprising,” Eight chimed in, standing and wiping her hands on her leggings, crossing to look around Seven at the photo of Murat pinned to the board. 

“The Americans caught him years back and gave him to his brother, that bald-looking fellow,” Four continued to ramble. “You like him though, One, yeah? He’s definitely an arsehole, but a likable arsehole, no?” 

Seven did not even turn to look at Four. “No.” 

Taken aback from the abrupt answer, Four threw out, “Well, he likes you!” 

Eight laughed a bit, shaking her head. Four blushed even harder, the paleness of his complexion doing nothing to hide his embarrassment. 

“You are definitely right, One can definitely been an asshole. But in regards to your concern,” she directed her attention to Seven, “That is why One recruited me.” 

“What do you think is my concern?” 

“What is there _**not**_ to be concerned about?” Eight retorted, before leaning against the desk beside Four. “Their one mission was a shitshow, that is for damn sure. But that is why he recruited me.” 

“You have the skills to keep it from becoming a shit show?” Seven asked, unable to hide his doubt. 

“Why does that surprise you?”

“Um, because you look like you are younger than this kid,” he gestured to Four, who let out a small, indignant ‘hey!’ that went ignored, “And about as dangerous as a college student.” 

“Not that you look bad, because you don’t, you’re beautiful,” Four scrambled to try and soothe the insult, only to dig himself into a deeper hole, “I mean-"

Eight smiled at Four, amused at the way the young man fumbled, off-kilter. 

There was an air of innocence to him, something endearing that made her soften a bit. 

“Looks can be deceiving, Seven,” she replied, kindly pretending not to notice Four’s fumbles, “Don’t you know never to judge a book by its cover?”

.

.

.

Only a few of them go to Vegas. 

One, Two, and Three - in truly _awful_ disguises - get the info they need, and kill the four generals. 

And when they come back, it should be joyous, they succeeded - 

But Eight _sees._

She sees the small bruise at the base of Two’s throat - almost completely covered by her blouse, but visible when she moves a certain way - a love bite, bold and proud against the French woman’s skin. 

She sees Three, almost vibrating with angry energy, but more than that - a bone deep _shame_ , a grief, that he cannot hide behind angry words and frenetic motions, not from her. 

And One, all but _dripping_ in repressed rage. 

.

.

.

She gives him a day to calm down before she corners him. 

One is locked away in his personal office, maps of the world in front of him as he calculates the distance and plots the flight path from California to Tokyo. 

“Why did you threaten to blow Three’s brains out?”

“Did that wimp really tattle on me to you?”

“No, he didn’t. I guessed, because I know you and your temper, so again...what happened?”

One growled low in his throat, pushing the maps away and shooting to his feet. 

“Because, he broke the _one rule_ we have! He was visiting his _mother_.” 

Eight blinks. 

This is not what she was expecting. 

She thought that One would have been furious because Two and Three were fucking. 

Well. She is going to keep _that_ bit of information to herself on the off-chance that One did not know about it. 

“Three may be reckless, but he is not an idiot. Why was he visiting his mother?” 

“His mother has Alzheimer's, she’s alone in a long-term care facility.” 

“So…she does not remember him when he leaves? If she said anything about her dead son visiting her, no one would take her seriously?” 

One glares at her, dark and dangerous. 

“That is not the point, Eight -“ 

“That is not why you are really mad at him, One. Yes, he broke the rules, but it does not really compromise the mission-“ 

“He broke _the one rule we have-“_

One should have known better than to think that his normal blustering would throw off Eight. 

“Do not bullshit me, One, why are you _really_ mad at him?”

“He endangered the _team!_ ”

Ah. There it is. 

Eight smiled smugly, crossing her arms as she stared him down, victorious. One closed his eyes and tried to regain his composure, pissed at himself for giving into her manipulations so easily. 

“You are the only one here who is fighting to remind everyone that we are not going to be a family. There is only so much a person can take, One, before they start to seek out that family somewhere else.” 

“You don’t need a family,” One spat, feeling too raw and exposed by the direction this conversation was going.

“No, you don’t,” Eight agreed, “But that doesn’t mean that they are going to stop craving one.” 

“Well, tough luck. They are going to stick to the plan and get over it.” 

“Like you did?” 

Eight knew it was a low blow, but she was done with One pretending with her. They had never put on a front with each other. 

One did not flinch. He stiffened, hardened like stone.

And he fought back like a cornered animal, going straight for the jugular. 

“You should know better than anyone, _Eight_ , that family can fuck you over and betray you better than anyone else. I would think you would be more averse to the idea of creating a new family, knowing what your first one did to you.” 

Eight barely blinked, but One knew that the blow had hit true and cut deep. 

“Fuck you, One,” she said mildly, as if he had responded to her slight provocation with a light-hearted insult, instead of a dull knife to the heart. 

He did not say anything, makes no attempt to apologize or show remorse for his words. 

Eight did not bother to close the door behind her when she turned and walked out. 

.

.

.

Eight did not come back to the base for two weeks. 

One pretended to not notice her absence, but his temper grew steadily shorter and shorter, reaching the point that whenever he walked into a room, anyone who was in it tried to find the quickest and shortest way back out of it. 

Three is One’s preferred target, and the two men snipe and yell at each other, throwing back and forth barbed comments with zeal. Weapons were drawn more than once, but thankfully, Five did not have to patch up any bullet holes. 

Two rolls her eyes at the macho display between the two of them, but she is not as sneaky as she thinks she is when she slips into Three’s trailer late at night when she thinks everyone is sleeping. 

Four fluctuates between extreme boredom and nervousness, too in tuned with the upheaval at the base. Seven sees how the younger man looks to One for leadership, guidance, and sees how it hurts the young blond when One brushes him off with a snide comment. 

Four babbles on and on about how _maybe we should look for Eight, maybe she is in trouble?_ \- doing a horrible job of hiding the massive crush he had developed on the pretty girl. Seven derails him several times from bringing that question up in front of One, knowing that it was just a recipe for disaster. 

And when Eight finally comes back - appearing at lunch time, with a split lip and a cold look in her eye - she drops a folder full of flight clearance codes for in and out of Turgistan on the table in front of One, ignoring how the entire room seems to go quiet. 

“Here,” she says blankly, “For Day of the Dead. I know how you like for things to stick to plan.” 

She leaves as abruptly as she came. 

Seven is the only one who notices how for a split second - so quick he almost missed it - _shame_ flickers across One’s face. 

.

.

.

“Hey, I just wanted to…I wanted to make sure…I mean check in on…I mean, are you…are you alright?” 

Four’s stammering is as endearing to her as it was in the beginning. 

He had knocked on her door, a few hours after her return to the base, clenching his hands tightly in nervousness. 

He had flushed bright red when he saw that she was in a pair of very small shorts and a tank top, but behind that, she can see the genuine _relief_ in his gaze when he sees her still standing in her tailer, and she has to furiously tamp down the _warmth_ that rises in her chest. 

“I am fine, Four. Thank you for asking.”

For a long moment, Four’s gaze drops to her split lip, and then drops to covertly look at her bare arms and legs, furtively trying to check if she had any bruises or cuts that they had not seen when she first came back. 

“Four,” she called, making his gaze shoot back to hers, “I promise you I am fine.” 

“Well…good,” he stuttered, before abruptly turning and walking away. She watches him for a second, amused when he stops dead and seems to internally argue with himself, before he turns back around and calls to her, “Want to join the rest of us for a drinking game?” 

And against her better judgement - despite the whispers in the back of her mind that tell her _don’t get too close_ and the raw wounds that sting each time she looks at a fellow ghost - she finds herself going, “Yes,” with a smile. 

.

.

.

The rest of the group - even One, to her surprise - are sitting around a bonfire a little further away from the trailers on the empty tarmac. 

There are several handles of liquor being passed around, beer in coolers off to the side. There was music playing softly from a speaker someone must have brought over, and a collection of lawn chairs were spread out in a circle around the fire pit. 

Eight folded her legs underneath her as she settled into an empty lawn chair, accepting the cold beer that Seven passed her with a smile. 

She did not chime into the conversation that was already free-flowing, the others having clearly been drinking for a while if their slightly slurred speech and pile of empty beer glasses were any indication. 

Eight felt herself slowly relax - the fire warming her legs, a light breeze coming across the California desert, the stars appearing slowly in the sky as the sun went down and painted the skies indigo and then black. 

Somehow, between the boasting stories of their successes and wild moments in their lives before they “died,” Three pointed at Five, needling her teasingly. 

“Come on, how did you kill yourself?”

“What kind of morbid fucking conversation is this?” One groaned, slouching down further in his lawn chair. 

“Come on, drinking game, right now!” Three lunged for some of the shot glasses, lining up enough for each one of them before taking the handle of tequila that he had been hoarding all night. He filled each one generously - almost to overflowing - and started handing them out. 

“Tell the story and then down the hatch, motherfuckers!” 

Two plucked the shot glass from his hands quickly. Four snagged his own, and soon, everyone - including Eight - had been forced to take one as well.

“Fearless leader, you first!” 

One glared at Three, but dutifully lifted his shot glass and declared, “Another rich billionaire fucking around in an airplane that had engine failure and crashed!” 

He tipped the shot back with a grimace. 

“Dove off the side of a fishing charter, left a suicide note in my hat that I dropped on the deck,” Seven blithely announced, taking a shot of tequila as he did so. 

Even as Three cheered him on, Eight noticed the tightening in Seven’s jaw even as he spoke lightly about his own death. 

“Special cocktail of drugs, gave the appearance of death long enough to be legally declared dead. Mix up with some paperwork in the system, and some unclaimed Jane Doe’s ashes were labeled as mine,” Five lifted her shot glass with a wry grin, before sucking it down with a wrinkled nose.

And like that, they went around in the circle, each one of them telling how they had killed themselves. 

“They assumed that I was dead when I fell off the building. Just get a mangled enough body, an unclaimed John Doe, and labeled it as me.” Four cheered, sucking down the shot so quickly that he immediately began choking. 

“Friendly fire,” Two said simply, refusing to elaborate more before she sucked down her shot. 

“My car broke down in the middle of Death Valley,” Three gleefully threw back his shot, his tone much too happy for the conversation he had started, “They assumed that I tried to walk back to civilization and died of dehydration in the desert, body taken by scavengers.” 

“And what about you?” Three pointed to Eight, who was sitting in silence. 

One stiffened, his gaze immediately snapping to her face. 

Eight smiled darkly. 

“Oh, see, I didn’t have to kill myself.” 

“What?” Seven asked, a hint of anger in his voice as he looked back and forth between her and One. 

Immediately understanding where his anger came from - _thinking that maybe One had given her a free pass where he would not let anyone else -_ Eight gave them just a bit more. 

“All of you had to die because there were people who would miss you, because you all had lives and ties to the world. I didn’t.”

Four’s brows were furrowed as he stared at her, trying to figure out what she was saying. 

“Well, clearly you had a _life_ , if you are still living,” Seven leaned back in his chair, the curiosity still mixed with confusion on his face. 

**“** Ah, you see **,** that’s the difference between us,” Eight smirked - dark and bitter - as she threw back the shot of tequila without hesitation or even a single grimace, making Three’s eyebrows rise in approval. 

“I didn’t have to kill myself because I’ve never been alive.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever watched a movie and known in your bones that you were about to fall down a rabbit hole of a new obsession?
> 
> I have so much work to be doing for law school and for my other fics, but this one _would not leave me alone_ and I had to write it. Unlike my other fics, this one is going to be a pretty short, self-contained story. 
> 
> Sorry for any errors, I will be going through and rereading to try and clean it up and flesh it out a bit, but I needed to get it out here! 
> 
> Happy 2020 everyone! Please leave me a comment, let me know what you think!


	2. two

_Hot, so hot -_

_The sun was so harsh he could almost feel his skin burning through the linen of his shirt -_

_He could hear childish laughter echo through the air as a bunch of kids kicked around a battered soccer ball. Could you imagine? Their lives in chaos and their homes in ruins and they were still able to laugh -_

_The whirl of planes, panicked voices, the sirens, the_ _**screams**_ \- 

_“They’re gonna hit us!”_

_“We gotta get the masks!”_

_Explosions, shrapnel and stone and_ _**people** flying through the air - _

_A cloud of white death descends on all of them._

_His hands - shaking, trembling - as he struggled to pull plastic off the masks, pressing them into desperate, running hands -_

_The feel of the mask on his own face - oppressive, the suction pulling at his skin -_

_People and buildings collapsed, people spewed white foam and blood as they coughed their lives out of collapsing lungs -_

_A little boy,_ _scared, so **scared** , frozen in the middle of the road as a man collapsed in front of him, coughing, suffocating on poisoned air - _

_He vaulted over the rubble, snatched the kid around the middle, jammed the mask over his face-_

_Even through the gas mask, he could smell the_ _**death**_ \- 

_A little girl, her eyes wide and blank in horror behind her gas mask, sitting quietly next to the body of her mother, holding her hand -_

_Her limp weight in his arms as he carried her away, the feeling of her tiny fist clutching the fabric of his shirt -_

_Another poor little orphan, parents dead in this too-harsh world -_

_Another child who was going to grow up_ _**just like he did**_ \- 

.

.

.

One jerked awake, his entire body bathed in a cold sweat. He lunged out of bed, scrambling to get out of the covers. The sheets clung to his ankles, almost sending him face-planting into the floor, but he managed to gather his balance at the last second. 

He stumbled out of his small room, and headed to the main kitchen. 

Although it must have been around two or three in the morning, he was not surprised to see Eight sitting at the kitchen table. 

She was still in the clothes she had been wearing earlier at the bonfire, but now she had a blue zip-up hoodie over her shoulders. It looked suspiciously like Four’s. 

She was fiddling with an empty shot glass, a bottle of Jose Quervo half-empty next to her. 

“I know I have better stuff than that,” he threw out blithely. 

“I was drinking to stay drunk, not to enjoy the taste,” Eight smiled wryly at him, but he could see the haunted shadows behind her eyes, the minute tremble in her fingers as she poured herself another shot, and then poured another for him when he slid another shot glass across the table to her. 

Together, the two of them threw the alcohol back and then slammed their glasses against the table in unison. 

After a few minutes of companionable silence, Eight cocked her head asked him softly, “Same nightmare?” 

One doesn’t say anything, just grabbed the tequila and poured himself another shot. 

It was all the answer she needed.

Eight grabbed the tequila back and poured herself another shot, but proceeded to sip it, savoring the burn of the alcohol against her lips. 

“I am sorry.” 

She froze, the glass still pressed to her lips. 

Eight could feel One’s heavy gaze on her face - could see the exhaustion and haunted shadows behind his eyes. She pressed her lips together tightly, summoning her composure. 

“Don’t say you are sorry unless you actually mean it.” 

One flinched as if he had been slapped. 

“I _am_ sorry for it. I'm an asshole, but-“

“You didn’t say anything that is not true,” she cut him off, her voice hollow. 

One swallowed, the guilt almost choking him.

“Doesn’t mean that I should have said it.” 

Eight threw back the rest of the tequila in her shot glass, reaching for the bottle and pouring more. 

One sighed heavily, realizing that she was not going to let him apologize - knew that with his thoughtless words he had thrown in her face, he had given her another brick to build a higher wall around herself. Knew that he had crossed a line he should never have.

Even though he felt the guilt heavy on his chest, he changed the subject, offering her something else. 

“That little girl from the refugee camp, Zehira…she is doing well.” 

A genuine smile spread across Eight’s lips as she remembered the little girl with the long, dark hair and sweet face that One had shown her a photo of.

“I made sure she got out of the camps - last time I checked in on her, she had been adopted by a family in Russia - she has siblings, she is in therapy, thriving in school...she is doing well.” 

"That is good,” Eight whispered, genuine relief in her voice. 

By contrast, One felt his spirits dip lower.

"Yeah…she gets a happy ending…but what about all these other kids? And not just those harmed by Rovach -" 

Eight reached out across the table, pulled the full shot glass from his hands and drank it herself, putting the empty glass to the side. She wrapped her hand around his, rubbing her thumb across the back of his hand. He could feel the callouses along her fingers that came from years of handling weapons, of fighting and struggling to survive. 

“‘Preventing others from having to grow up like us,’ remember? That is what we are going to do.” 

One twisted his hand in her grip, holding onto her hand tightly, threading their fingers together. Though his hands were significantly larger than hers, the strength in her small fingers reminded him that she was so much stronger than him - mentally, emotionally, and physically.

“I _am_ sorry,” he whispered again - apologizing again for his harsh words, for throwing her past in her face like he did not know what it had cost her to tell him in the first place, apologizing for the fact that she had endured a childhood straight out of a horror movie. Apologizing for everything that he was trying to fix in the world, and had not been able to succeed in fixing for years. 

Eight stood, still holding onto his hand. She leaned across the table, slipping the fingers of her free hand through the hair on the back of his head as she leaned forward and pressed a long, soft kiss to his forehead. His eyes fluttered closed in exhaustion, the scent of Eight - gun oil, the light floral scent of her perfume, the tequila on her breath - flooding over him. 

“I know,” she whispered, her partially chapped lips brushing against his forehead, before she gently untangled their fingers and headed out of the room to bed. 

.

.

.

_**Hong Kong, China** _

“You know,” Eight commented lightly as she followed One across the crane to Murat’s fancy penthouse apartment-slash-prison, not at all fazed by being suspended so far over the street, “this is going to be another shit show.”

“How do you know that? I planned this!” One asked, slightly insulted.

“I know it _because you planned it!_ Jesus, the whole _goddamned_ reason you brought me onto this team was to keep your missions from becoming disasters, and yet, you do the exact fucking _opposite_ of what I told you to do!” 

She had _told_ One to let her and Two go in and extract Murat themselves. It would have been cleaner, more discrete, and definitely would _not_ have led to them essentially broadcasting to the entire city what they were doing. 

“Wow, don’t get snippy,” One deflected, finally getting through an open window and into the apartment building. Eight followed him, still ranting. 

“Whatever intel you got about there only being seven guys? _Beyond_ wrong.” 

“Why do you think we crawled across that crane? To provide back-up!"

“And to make it even worse, I am here with _you!_ ”

“What is wrong with being here with me?!” 

“Because it is where I am _least useful!_ If anything, you should have sent me in with Two!” 

“She has Three!” 

“Who was _high as hell!_ Seven just drowned everyone, the entire city knows we are here by now, and there are at least twenty men with guns coming after us!” 

Seven’s voice came across the comms. 

_“Anyone else feel as though they are over-hearing Mom and Dad fight?”_

Eight snarled in frustration - but with perfect cosmic timing, the universe provided her something to hit. 

Five armed guards sprinted into the hallway where they were, and Eight smoothly stepped in front of One, punching the first man so hard she could feel the cartilage of his nose collapse underneath the force. Gunfire raged throughout the hall, but One grabbed the barrel of a gun, deflecting it over his shoulder to the gunman behind him. A harsh kick to the gut, and the weapon was his. Two more shots, and two more men were down.

Eight slid across the marble floor, knocking into another’s leg, sending him to the ground in a crumpled mess. She grabbed the knife from her boot in one fluid motion, slitting the man’s throat and then throwing the knife into the last man’s chest, his gun discharging as he went down.

Between the two of them, they had cleared the entire area in less than fifteen seconds. 

Seven’s voice came back over the comms, heavy with suspicion, _"You wanna tell everyone where you learned that shit?"_

Neither of them answered. 

As Eight popped up from the ground, wiping the blood on her hand against her leg, she glared at her friend who looked just as frustrated as she felt. 

Good. 

“Next time, _I_ make the plan.” 

“Fuck, _fine!_ ”

.

.

.

Watching Three manhandle Murat should not have been as amusing as it was. 

Watching One lose it with Three was even funnier. 

“Hey, at least Three is pretty,” she commiserated with Two as the two women stood back and watched Three chase down Murat when he tried to flee. 

“He is very pretty,” the French woman agreed, amusement lacing her normally emotionless voice.

One helped Murat to his feet, glaring over his shoulder at the two women who did nothing to help him. 

“Just…get to the car!” One finally snapped, and they all moved out, heading to the elevator to get to the getaway car.

“Come on Four, we're moving!” 

_“Just go. I can’t get across, they cut the zip line.”_

One stilled, hand to his ear. “I’m sorry."

_“It's just bad luck."_

Eight froze, amusement fading rapidly as she stared at One in disbelief. He closed his eyes, before turning and heading to the elevator with the rest of them. 

She was still in a state of disbelief as she got into the car with the rest of them, crammed in the back of the ridiculously small mini-Cooper, as they left Four behind.

It was the smart thing to do - was what so many others would do. 

She had done it herself to more people than she wanted to admit. 

She had been taught to do that. Hell, she was the one who had taught One that it was what you did. 

She just never thought he would actually _do it._

Sirens blared and numerous police cars flew down the streets, making each ghost in the car tense in anticipation. 

"I thought you were supposed to keep this from becoming a shit show!” Seven hissed at Eight, who was jammed into the backseat with him.

"I would have if he fucking listened to me,” Eight snarled, frustration making her temper short. She cursed again as Three slammed on the brakes, a young police officer commanding them to stop. 

"Want me to kill him?” Three muttered under his breath, hand already moving to his thigh where his gun was holstered. 

Eight quickly leaned forward into the front seat, her voice harsh as she frantically whispered, “No, don’t, they are warning us to stay back, that it is dangerous-“

Seven whipped around to look at her, incredulous, “You speak Chinese?!”

“He’s speaking Cantonese,” she corrected softly, but then Murat started screaming for the cops, yelling that he was being kidnapped - 

“I'm gonna kill him,” Three hissed. 

“I’m gonna let you,” One snapped back. 

The police surprisingly did not stop them, instead hurried back to their cars and took off. 

And several seconds later she realized why. 

An explosion later, and massive chunks of rebar and building materials were raining from the sky. Eight whipped her head around, watching in shock as the police cars behind them were crushed, turning into fireballs as the metal fell. 

Four’s voice across the comms made her heart race. 

_“I made it across - southwest side - where are you guys?”_ A beat later, his voice, choked and _**afraid**_ , _“No!”_

They all heard as he was hit, the scuffle of a fight, Four’s groans as he fought for his life - 

“Stop the car!” Seven demanded. 

“No, don’t stop the car! We are _leaving_ him!” 

Eight bit her tongue hard. 

“Stop the car!” Seven yelled again, leaning forward to grab Three’s shoulder. 

“Do _not_ stop the car!” 

“ _Stop_ _the fucking car!”_ Seven drew his gun, pointing it at Three’s temple.

“Hey, don’t fucking do it!” One pulled his own gun, pointing it at Three from the passenger seat. 

Three slammed on the breaks, throwing his hands up in the air, motioning exasperatedly behind him. "He cocked it first!” 

“I’m not going this again!” Seven yelled, his voice breaking from the force of his emotion, “I’m not leaving him behind! We’re all we got!” 

Even before he was finished speaking, Eight was out of the car and around the back, looking up to the skyscrapers. 

“He’s in the net up there!” 

Eight had her hand to her comm, her voice low and frantic as she hurriedly whispered to Four, “Hang on, we’re here, we’re here-“

Seven was setting up his rifle to the hushed demands to hurry as the other ghosts stood outside the car, their concern palpable in the air around them. 

Eight couldn't take her eyes off of Four, who was struggling for his life against a massive beast of a man. And when Four was pushed off the side of the panel, hanging on by just his legs, she was shocked by the depth of the fear she felt.

When Seven finally got his shot off, it was clean; ricocheting through the back of the man’s head, sending his heavy body falling to the ground below. 

They all watched as Four hauled himself back up onto the panel, before shimmying down the side of the building in his usual dizzying display of strength and balance. As soon as his feet touched the ground, Eight was running to him. 

Four all but collapsed in her arms, shaking from residual adrenaline and his close brush with death, letting her support his weight for a long moment as he held her tightly in return. Although they were close in height, Four was half a head taller than her and significantly broader, but she held his weight easily. 

Eight closed her eyes at the crushing weight of _relief_ that he was _alive._

The rest of the ghosts watched as Eight and Four held each other for a long moment; despite his own irritation, One did not yell at them to hurry it up. Despite the imminent threat of being caught, they all allowed the two youngest members of the team their moment. 

Seven turned to One. 

“Carvers.” 

One did not look amused, but corrected the man anyway. 

“Cleavers.” 

.

.

.

They cut through the restaurants, gear on their shoulders, until they end up in the alley in the back of a truck that had been planted for their retreat. 

The argument broke out almost as soon as they stopped long enough to take a breath. 

“-isn’t sitting right with me man, you made me a promise!” 

“I know, I know,” One sighed wearily. 

Seven was relentless, picking up indignant anger like an avalanche picked up snow. 

"You said always let me pull the trigger, right?!”

“Yeah, yeah, I did say that-“

“Yeah, you remember that?”

Seven grabbed handfuls of One’s shirt, slamming him against the side of the truck with enough force to make the entire vehicle rattle. 

“Okay, easy,” One snapped back, not fighting back but raising his voice to cut over Seven, "You know why we don’t use names?! You wanna know why? Because, no offense Four, I am glad you’re alive, but _you_ ,” he turned his gaze back to Seven, anger leaking into his voice, “You left us out on that street there, we were totally exposed! If I was up there, I would have expected you to leave me and not turn back!"

“No, no, _fuck_ that!” 

“Mission is more important than the man-"

" _Fuck_ the mission! _You don’t leave a solider behind_!"

"I got news for you, Seven!” One had finally hit the point of true exasperation, unable to comprehend how someone who had been told about this multiple times could be so dense, “You’re not a soldier anymore!” One pointed to Five, to Two and Three, “She’s not a doctor, she’s not a spy, he’s not a hitman, and I’m not a CEO-“

“A rich asshole?” Seven spat out. 

“Oh, I am still a rich asshole…I just don’t have a name.” 

Seven ignored One, spinning around until he was looking at Four, who honestly looked like he would rather be anywhere but in the back of this truck, witnessing this fight. 

"What’s your name, man?” Seven asked. 

“Don’t tell him,” One ordered. 

"I’m Blaine...I just saved your life,” Blaine steadfastly ignored One, keeping his eyes on Four. Four was hesitant, eyes flickering back and forth between One and Blaine. 

“What’s your name?” Blaine asked again, softening his tone.

Eight could see Four swallow hard, straighten his shoulders and fortify himself. 

“It’s Billy.” 

“Billy,” Blaine’s face cracked into a small smile, “Yeah, you look like a Billy.” 

“He looks like a Four,” One snapped, but there was no more fight in his voice. 

Three spoke next, arms crossed over his broad chest. 

“I’m Javier.” 

“Camille,” Two offered. 

“Amelia,” Five pipped up. 

Blaine turned to look at One, who just glared at him. 

Shrugging, he turned to Eight, who was now standing between One and Billy, her face expressionless. 

“What is your name?”

Eight swallowed hard, her heart thumping hard in her chest. “I don’t have a name.” 

“Bull _shit_ ,” Seven - Blaine - spat, anger darkening his expression quickly, “We told you our names, we are not going to do be doing this ‘ghosts’ bullshit with each other-“

One was in-between them in a flash, his voice tight with anger so harsh that Billy flinched back, Amelia’s eyes widening in shock. “Shut the _fuck_ up, _right now_ , Seven-"

But Seven was like a dog with a bone, digging in his heels and refusing to let go. “Everyone has a name!"

“Seven, I am warning you right now, _shut the fuck up!”_

“You don’t get to speak for all of us! You don’t get to speak for _her!_ Especially when she didn’t have to _die_ to her friends, to her _family_ , like the rest of us did!” 

One viscously shoved Blaine back, the force of his push sending Blaine stumbling backwards. “You have no idea what you are talking about-“

Blaine gained his balance and pushed past One, glaring at Eight, getting in her face and snapping out again, “What is your name?"

Eight lifted her chin, glaring over Blaine’s shoulder, silent.

But it was Four - _Billy_ \- who was staring at her in confusion, but also slowly dawning realization, remembering her dark grin in the light from the fire when she said _I didn’t have to kill myself because I’ve never been alive._

“You can’t have always been a ghost,” Blaine accused.

“One, stop,” she said in a flat, monotone, pushing his arm lightly, letting Blaine get further into her space. 

“I don’t have a name, Blaine. I never have. Names are for people with lives,” Eight stated flatly, “I have never been anything but a number.”

The glare the One leveled at Blaine was bright and bold and _dangerous_. Camille looked at both of them in confusion and frustration, clearly trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together and coming up short. 

One looked visciously... _protective_. 

“If you want to keep the anonymous bullshit, fine, that’s your choice,” Blaine sighed exasperatedly, disgust and disappointment in his tone and all but dripping off his face. 

Eight finally _snapped_ , shoving him _hard_. Seven was forced back several feet, staggering from the force, only for her to get in his face in return. 

“I never had to die in front of my friends and family, _because I never had any!_ I was made in a test tube and born in a lab, I was nothing more than an experiment! Then I was a weapon to be sold to the highest bidder and _nothing more_!”

The silence that fell was deafening. 

Blaine was staring at her in disbelief and shock. Eight reached for the hem of her shirt, hiking it up high enough that they could see her scarred and toned abdomen. She twisted around, gritting her jaw so hard she felt as though she would crack a tooth. 

There, on her lower back, just to the right of her spine, was a small tattoo. 

No...a _brand._

It was scarred over, white and slightly raised, but still clear. It was a letter and a number: _X8._

Billy looked as though he was going to throw up. Amelia had her hands over her mouth in horror, tears beading in the corners of her eyes. Javier was stunned, and Camille looked as though she were trying very hard to keep her expression stony. 

“I was Experiment 8, or X8, in the lab,” Eight stated hollowly, eyes distant and focused on nothing, “And once I was old enough and they trained me for missions, I was only ever Soldier 8. So when I say I have never been alive, that I have never been anything but a number…I am telling the truth.” 

She dropped her shirt and took a step back, glaring up at Blaine, who was shocked and abashed. 

“Living a life is a privilege that not everyone had, Blaine.” 

“Eight...I’m so sorry-“

But she was already striding away, grabbing her bag off the ground and jumping out of the back of the truck. None of them tried to stop her, although Four looked as though he was close to grabbing her hand just before she stepped out of reach. 

They watched her head to the driver’s side door of the truck, climbing in and slamming the door behind her. 

They all stood motionless in the ensuing silence.

“You knew,” Five said softly, looking to One. 

They all turned to look to their leader, who had never before looked so pissed. 

One didn’t answer her, his face flushed with protective rage and his fist clenched. When Seven made a move as if to follow Eight, One grabbed him and shoved him back, no longer tempering his strength. 

“Hey, fuck you, man-“ Seven said belligerently - 

“For _once,”_ One hissed through gritted teeth, “For _once_ , can you stop with the _holier-than-thou_ attitude and just for once - for _once! -_ stop trying to force what you think is best on everyone?” 

“Like you do?” Seven snapped, bristling even as shame crept up his expression. 

One’s gaze did not waver. 

“As much as you would like to think you know better than me in everything,” One stated, “When it comes to Eight, and when it comes to this world that we are fighting to bring down…yes. I do know best. Now shut up, stop sowing discord, and _get your goddamn shit together._ ” 

He shoved Seven away one last time and headed out of the truck too, grabbing a duffle bag as he went and headed to the passenger seat, calling over his shoulder, “We have four days until Day of the Dead. Handle your own shit, we have work to do."

.

.

.

They were about three hours into the flight - Eight having immediately headed for the back of the jet to the small room without looking at any of the other ghosts - when there was a small knock at the door. 

“Eight...er, I mean...”

She turned slightly, just enough for Billy to see her eyes, dark and glittering slightly in the sunset that was coming through the window in the back bedroom of the private jet. 

“You can still call me Eight, Billy. It is my name.”

His face seemed to flush, but he continued into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him. 

Billy held two mugs in his hands - she could smell the fragrant steam coming out of the one in his left, the one that he offered to her. She took it into her hands and realized that it was full of the pomegranate tea she favored. 

The tea that she normally kept in the communal kitchen back at the California base. The tea that she did not bring onto the flight, so he must have. 

Her heart _ached_ at the gesture. 

“Thank you,” she took a sip, letting the fragrant steam soothe her nerves, gesturing to the armchair across from her, “Sit. How are you? Any injuries?”

Billy smiled wryly at her as he settled into the armchair, sprawling out as he did. 

“Amelia looked me over. Bruises, nothing more. I am lucky.”

“Good,” she said, genuinely relieved that Billy has suffered no serious injuries. 

They fell into silence again for a long moment. 

“Thank you.” 

Eight startled at bit, confused as she looked at him. 

“For what?” 

“For coming back for me.” 

Eight felt the familiar shame and guilt creep up her throat. 

“Billy…you should be thanking Blaine for that more than me.” 

“I heard you.” 

“What?”

“I heard you…and I saw you. You were the first one out of the car, the first one to reassure me that you guys were coming back for me.” 

Eight paused, taking a deep sip of the tea to give herself time to think. 

“Just,” he fidgeted with his own mug, his voice soft, “Thank you.” 

Eight looked at Billy, the piercing depth of his green eyes, the soft fall of blond hair across his forehead; there was something about him that made her want to hold him, that made her want to be soft and comforting and caring in a way that she had never been before. 

Looking at him staring at her with so much earnestness, she realized with a jolt that she would have come back for him on her own. Fuck One and his mission, if they had really driven away, she would have gotten out of the car and headed back immediately to find him. 

Keeping them hidden and off the grid would have been easy, she had been doing it her entire life. Fighting, protecting him, would be a piece of cake. She would have been able to get them out of the country and back to the United States with ease. 

The realization of how far she would have gone - the realization that she would have easily and quickly betrayed her promise to One and the mission - should have startled her. Concerned her, made her afraid of the power he unknowingly held over her. 

It didn’t. 

It felt as warm and comforting as the tea-filled mug in her hands. 

They lapsed into silence for a long while, each sipping at their warm drinks as they watched the earth pass below them. 

She could tell immediately when Billy wanted to ask her a question. She had long ago figured out his tell - the slight fidgeting in place, the way he cast quick glances at her face, parting his lips and sucking in a breath before snapping his mouth shut. 

Eight let him do that for a few minutes before she finally put him out of his misery. 

“You can ask me whatever you want to ask me, Billy.” 

Billy flushed. She lifted her mug to her mouth to hide her smile; she found his genuine embarrassment - and frequent flushes - endearing. 

“I just…I was…when you said you were born and trained in the labs…you mean like those characters in comic books? The Black Widow and all them? The missions they sent you on…it was like the shit we are doing now, wasn’t it?” 

“You are good. How’d you figure it out?” 

Billy preened slightly under the compliment. 

“You are trained, dangerous. I was able to tell the minute One brought you back to the base. It is in the way you carry yourself. That kind of training is hard to hide. I may not have seen you fight, but I know that you could probably take every single person in this plane out with one hand tied behind your back. The only other person like that is Camille, maybe Blaine. That comes from being trained, not just in fighting, but in everything. Weapons, tactics, espionage.” 

Eight _was_ impressed. Then again, Billy had been stealing things his whole life. Being able to gauge a person from afar, case buildings and routes and make contingency plans was a skill that he would have had to hone from the beginning. 

Out of all of them, Billy was the one who most had to trust his body and his instincts. There was no way that he could do what he did without complete and utter trust in his own body and skills and muscles. Everything had to be instant, a balance of skill, pure muscle memory, and confidence. 

That kind of instinct was not something that could be taught, and it was what also made him so good at reading people and emotions. 

“You’re right. I do not know what government or organization the labs started with. They moved us so frequently, and there were always so many different people and different languages being spoken. They didn’t discriminate in who they took on as clients either. We were sent out with governments, gangs, mafias, or as assassins or spies for hire.” 

“Is that how you met One?”

“Yes, but not how you think. I had been sent to work with the CIA on an extraction of some tech person who was defecting from Russia. One was working with them as well. That is how we met the first time. Then, when I escaped the lab a few years later, I ran into him again. He was starting to get his feet wet in this dirty underground, and I was freelancing. We stayed in contact for years afterwards, helped each other out when we could. When you guys lost Six, he came and got me. You can imagine my surprise when he told me that he had gotten all of you to agree to his insane mission.” 

Billy laughed, loud and genuine. 

“Yeah, sometimes I wonder what made me say yes to him as well.” 

“He is charismatic like that, when he is not being an asshole.” 

“He is different with you. I thought he was going to lay out Blaine when you left.” 

Eight stiffened a bit at the reminder, but forced herself to relax before Billy could notice her tension. 

“To be fair, I almost punched Blaine myself.” 

“You would have been justified, certainly,” Billy shook his head, “I appreciate the man a lot, he did save my life. But Blaine can be a bit heavy-handed, like One. And he never should have gotten in your face like that.” 

There was a faint edge of protective anger in his voice; Eight wondered if he even noticed. 

“Don’t worry, I can take care of myself,” Eight had taken down men twice Blaine’s size without breaking a sweat. 

“You shouldn’t have to. And despite what One says, this is becoming a little family. Cleavers, whatever the hell that means.” 

Eight laughed to cover up how her hands shook, how her heart started racing just a bit faster at that word. The riotous mix of longing, fear, pain, and betrayal that always swirled when she heard the word _family_ rattled through her chest with a vengeance. 

One’s words from all those weeks ago echoed in her ears. 

_I would think you would be more averse to the idea of creating a new family, knowing what your first one did to you._

Eight watched Billy’s face as he launched into another tangent of the conversation, and she could not help but remember another Four, _her_ Four, from what was another lifetime ago. She could hear the whispered words of her friend as clear as if her Four were right there next to her. 

Her Four had only been twelve, and Eight must have been about ten, and they were still in the first lab where they had all been born and raised. Her Four had been holding her hand as she cried silently from the pain of a beating she had gotten that day as a punishment for refusing to leave Four behind during a practice run. 

Her Four was holding her hand just as tightly as Eight was clinging to her, her own eyes brimming with tears as she whispered, _Eight, you are going to get yourself killed if you continue to let your heart win over your logic._

 _Sorry, Four_ , Eight thought to herself, remembering how her friend had been dead less than two years later, remembering how she had been the one to find her friend’s body and the tears she had cried and the way she had been beaten for them, _I have never been good at self-preservation._

The irony that she was the only one to survive was not lost on her, and she chugged the last tepid bits of her tea in an effort to distract herself, still nodding as if she were hearing everything Billy had been saying. 

She had lost everyone before and had somehow survived, but she would be damned if she lost this team. 

Day of the Dead was coming, but it would not take any of them.

That was her new mission, and it was one she was not going to fail. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: "Zehira," the name i gave to the little girl One carried away during his flashback scene, means "protected" in Hebrew 
> 
> it has been a long time, but here is another chapter! i cherish each and every comment, kudo, and subscription i get - please let me know what you think of this chapter!


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